


Crema Verse Prompt Fill #3

by twobirdsonesong



Series: Crema Verse [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prompt Fill, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsonesong/pseuds/twobirdsonesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>kissedmequiteinsane asked: kurt taking blaine to ‘meet’ his mom?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crema Verse Prompt Fill #3

They visit her grave in the fall, on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  The leaves have all been forced from the trees, and the trunks and the branches are bare and stark against the steel grey skies.

It’s a cold day, the wind is sharp against their cheeks, and they’re both bundled up against the bone-deep chill.  Kurt is wearing a thick coat that comes halfway down his thighs and his jeans are tucked into his heavy boots.  A dark grey scarf, the color almost matching the clouds, is wrapped around his throat and tucked down the front of his coat.  Blaine has his favorite pea coat on, the one that Kurt likes the best on him, and he’s stolen Kurt’s beloved sky-blue scarf to protect his neck from the icy breeze.  He hopes the cheerful color isn’t disrespectful.

“You don’t have to do this, Blaine.”  Kurt says, again.  They’re parked in the lot of the little Lima, Ohio, cemetery and the engine is off, but Kurt hasn’t taken his hands from the steering wheel of his dad’s Navigator.  “You can stay in the car - I’m used to going out there alone.”

“I want to,” Blaine says fervently.  He needs Kurt to realize that he’s never going to be alone again.  “Unless you don’t want me to.  I know I kind of – brought myself along on this.  But I - I hate that there are still things we don’t talk about.  I mean - I get it, if you can’t – if you’re still not ready, but,” Blaine pauses, swallows down the confusion of words spilling out of his mouth, and rubs his palms against his thighs.  “We’ve been together more than a year.  We live together.  I love you.”   _I want to marry you_.  “I want every part of you, Kurt.  And this is part of you.  I don’t care that it’s not bright and shiny and happy.”  Blaine looks over at Kurt, who is staring straight ahead through the windshield at something off in the distance.  Or maybe he’s cast back into a memory.  “Let me have this part too.”

Kurt tightens his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles go white.  Blaine reaches out and rests his left hand over Kurt’s right.  Kurt’s hands are cold and Blaine can’t know what Kurt’s thinking about in that moment, but he wishes he did.

“Ok,” Kurt says, and it’s barely above a whisper.  Blaine hears it loud and clear anyway.

There’s a layer of dirty snow left over from last week’s storm and the ground is frozen hard beneath their feet.  Blaine’s breath catches tight in his chest as they approach a simple headstone in fine-grained red granite with a short epitaph engraved upon it:

_Elizabeth M. Hummel_

_Beloved Wife and Mother_

_Fly Blackbird Fly_

Kurt has a bouquet of vibrant orange Marigolds, the very last of the season, and Blaine has a little bundle of African Violets, because they’re so much like a burst of life and spring in the deep cold of winter.  He doesn’t know Kurt’s mother, he never will, but he likes to imagine that there are little pieces of her in Kurt, and that maybe one of those pieces is an appreciation for joyful color.

“She liked tulips,” Kurt begins, and he twists the bouquet of flowers in his hands before placing them at the base of the headstone.  If this is the moment he’s finally ready to talk, then Blaine is more than ready to listen.  “Because they come in so many different colors and variations.  She wanted to take me to Holland when I got older, to see the fields, but obviously we never got to go.  And tulips are never in bloom in the fall so it’s been awhile since I’ve gotten to bring her some.  Dad does though.”  Kurt clears the fine layer of snow off the top of the headstone.

Blaine reaches out and takes Kurt’s hand in his, offering the simplest comfort of a touch.  Kurt squeezes at his fingers.

“It was a car crash.  I was eight and she was taking me to piano practice.  I was learning to play - I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.  And we were going to start choosing our own songs to learn, instead of just things like  _Hot Cross Buns_.  I picked The Beatles’  _Blackbird_ , because she used to sing it to me when I was upset.  She’d hold me tight and brush my hair back and I remember how sweet her voice was.  Like caramel.  Or that first sip of espresso.  I wanted to be able to play it back for her.

“It was a Wednesday.  I don’t know why I remember that; I had practice three days a week.  And we were going through a four-way intersection.  He wasn’t drunk.  He wasn’t speeding.  He just - didn’t stop.  It wasn’t dark or raining or anything.  He just didn’t stop.  I remember the noise - the god awful grinding and crunching of metal and glass.  I remember it happening within the space of a breath.  I remember she was about to tell me something.”  Kurt takes a deep, shuddering breath and it’s all Blaine can do to not gather him up into his arms and protect him from the memory.

“And I remember her not looking hurt at all, but she was.  And so was I.”  Kurt touches the straight line of scar tissue raised on the side of his neck.  “I don’t know where the glass came from.  Aren’t windshields designed not to shatter?  But I remember the paramedics telling me not to touch it.  I think it probably could have killed me too, if it had been in a slightly different place.”

“Kurt,” Blaine starts, and then stops.  His chest aches in a way it never has before.  He hasn’t ever lost anyone close to him.  His own mother isn’t dead, and while he hasn’t heard from her in a decade, it’s not the same.

“It’s ok,” Kurt replies, and he lifts Blaine’s hand to his lips and brushes a light kiss across his knuckles.  “I mean, I wish every day that it hadn’t happened.  I wish she had seen me grow up and graduate and get this job.  I think she would have been proud of me.”  Kurt wipes a lone tear off of his cheek.

“Of course she would be proud of you.”  Blaine’s voice is thick and choked.  The words are heavy on his tongue and hurt to say.  He knows what it’s like to wish someone was proud of your accomplishments.

“I wish she could have met you.”  Kurt smiles at Blaine, soft and bittersweet, and his red-rimmed eyes are a brilliant blue in the grey-dark afternoon.  “She would have loved you.”

Blaine swallows and his chest is so tight he can hardly draw a breath.  He thinks of a woman he’s never met - pale skin, laughing eyes, open heart - and mourns the mother-in-law he’s never going to have.

Blaine leans in and pressed a gentle kiss to Kurt’s cheek before he sets his little bundle of violets down in front of Elizabeth Hummel’s headstone.

 _I’ll take good care of him_ , he thinks.  _I promise_.

If Kurt wants to, if he’ll let him, Blaine is going to teach Kurt how to play the melody he was denied so long ago.  They’ll sit together on the piano bench and Blaine will guide Kurt’s fingers across the ivory keys.  It won’t make up for a lost parent, but Blaine hopes it might help heal the last hurt of it.

And, later, he’ll find a way to afford two transatlantic plane tickets.  Somehow.


End file.
